


Once Upon That Second

by RestAssured



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Car Sex, Cigarettes, First Time, Greg Has Been Feeling, Greg Smokes, M/M, Mycroft Feels, One-Shot, Oral Sex, PWP, Slightly Dom Lestrade, Slightly Sub Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:41:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1425544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RestAssured/pseuds/RestAssured
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade tries to light a cigarette. Mycroft watches. And then he realizes some things, which lead to car sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Upon That Second

Once upon a time, Gregory Lestrade pulled out a cigarette and Mycroft Holmes watched.

That moment should never have been so important.

It was against all odds that Mycroft Holmes, the single most intelligent man in England, would have the time or inclination to notice the thick, calloused fingers unsheathing the cigarette like a blade from its hilt. Or the practiced way they held the thing, reverent in his care as he tried to light it in the pouring rain.

He should’ve been noticing other things. Like his brother, bowed over the supposedly post-suicide corpse of a well-connected socialite. Or the ever-faithful doctor, trying to shield himself from the downpour with his jacket—far too light for this weather—but still there. He should’ve been watching his brother work, watching the gears in that clever brain turn so that he could reassure himself that there would be no more of… whatever the last few years had been.

But in that moment, the world lost its orbit. It paused in its invisible, never-ending rotation and went very, very still. Because it had seen something more appealing than the sun that it had been circling for eons.

Once upon that moment, that very moment, Mycroft refused to allow himself the luxury of thought, or… at the very least thought that translated into words. His nerves hummed, shaking a bit in their shock at being plucked by something so very insignificant. And all the logic he could manage did not explain the strange tightness in his chest when that cigarette found a home between those lips.

_He has lips._

Gregory Lestrade could not light his cigarette. Not under the awning of the restaurant on the corner, not even when he shielded his lighter so close he nearly burned his fingers. His soft brown eyes slid to the sky and, for all his power, Mycroft felt a little sad that he could not stop the rain. Somewhere… Somewhere to the left, Sherlock was solving a mystery. It was all a bit dull now, at least to Mycroft, who saw a thousand little things in the way this man moved.

Things he knew, had known, but had never found so interesting before.

_Eyes as well, then. Brown ones._

All things Mycroft knew, but had not quite understood until that moment.

And so, he picked up his umbrella and left his car to brave the rain. Sherlock’s eyes were on the body, John’s eyes were on Sherlock. Gregory Lestrade was the one who looked up and saw him.

He tipped his head slightly, assessing the man as a cat might assess a dog—with much trepidation. “You know, the elements are rather against you at the moment, Gregory.”

Brown eyes. There were things in them that Mycroft had not seen in any human or dream. Wide open willingness, patience that stretched forever, instinct that underestimated itself daily and beneath it all… something. A moment—a year—a note in a song that Mycroft knew before he heard it. Something that was just _in_ him.

Those eyes glanced toward Sherlock, and in that second Mycroft realized that he had either arrived at this private conclusion too early, or far too late.

_A man does not look away from conclusions like this so easily._

And then Lestrade crossed the wet sidewalk to stand beneath Mycroft’s umbrella. And Mycroft found himself wondering how he’d landed here.

“You know, I’ve never seen you actually in the rain.” He said, lighting his cigarette beneath the black umbrella. He took a long drag and blew the smoke toward the body to their left. “Always suspected that big black brolly was just for show.”

“As you can see, it serves its intended purpose well.” Mycroft found his lips quirking a tad, the way Sherlock’s lips tend to when he’s playing with one of his human toys. The smell of the smoke is intoxicating, and Lestrade had not shaven well that morning. Part of him, those nerves that had not been touched in a very long time, wanted to lean in. But that would be foolish. “You don’t need to stand in the rain, you know. Your team is perfectly capable of ensuring my brother does not tamper with your evidence.”

And by ‘your team’, they both knew he meant John. They exchanged a pair of smiles that didn’t match at all.

“Are you offering me a lift to the station?” Lestrade asked, and when Mycroft only smiled, he shook his head and let out a soft laugh. “In that posh car? How can I refuse?”

 _Not too late, then_. Mycroft realized, and it was then that he allowed himself to want this. So when he opened the car door and let the D.I. slide inside, he decided that this deserved something less than subtle.

He slid into the car and closed his umbrella and Lestrade took another breath of his cigarette before it was stolen from his fingers and tossed out the closing door. And once upon that second, Mycroft Holmes chased the taste of tobacco smoke to Gregory Lestrade’s lips, and that was when the solitary focus of his life ended.

The taste was sharp and hot and home, and Gregory’s tongue didn’t hesitate a moment. It was like he’d been waiting for this, counting on it, and for a split second Mycroft felt very stupid. As if realizing this man had hands and lips and eyes should’ve happened ages ago. But he pressed Lestrade to the seat and clutched his wet shoulders, unwilling to stop. And then two rough hands came up and fumbled desperately with his suit jacket, and he decided that this man was brilliant.

The jacket came off, and so did Lestrade’s, and their hands clutched at clothing that couldn’t be completely removed if they wanted to make it out of this moderately unscathed. But Greg’s legs opened, and Mycroft slid between them, and he felt what was there, and _fuck_. Why hadn’t he seen it before?

That strong, rough hand that had been so genius just seconds ago fell in a commanding grip on the back of Mycroft’s neck, and for a second his nerves rose to rage. But that grip tightened, and that quelled all the rage with a lust that Mycroft hadn’t felt since his first time with a man. This _felt_ like a first, of sorts. And when that hand began to push him down, he sucked in a breath and pinned Gregory Lestrade with a gaze that should’ve hurt.

“You think you’re in control here?”

“I think you’d enjoy it more if I was.” Lestrade answered, his accent roughened by the lust that had tented his trousers and made his eyes such a drunk brandy brown.

“You do _not_ have me.” Mycroft said, assuring himself. “I control this entire country. I control half the world on good days.”

“An’ I’m the one who’s got you right where I want you. Right now. Don’t think it’s not got me hard.” Lestrade growled, his fingers clenching just enough to make Mycroft feel it.

And it was the sweetest feeling.

So he followed the push and found himself sprawled over the back seat, his mouth breathing out over that heavy bulge. His fingers were shaking. Why on earth were they shaking?  He opened Gregory’s trousers, and his mouth came down on the white cotton he wore beneath, and he mouthed at the heat that was there. It was a strong scent, sweat and male heat, and he had never wanted something so bad before.

He heard Greg let out a sound, something soft like a gasp. And then the grip tightened, and he had to obey the command. His hands reached into those briefs and pulled that lovely cock free, and he opened his mouth and took the head, giving it a taste. His fingers clenched into Lestrade’s thighs. Delicious, just as he thought. Jutting back, he let the piece bob against the man’s shirt and tried to decide how he should attack it.

Because this was most certainly a battle, and he wasn’t ready to lose just yet.

But Greg’s hand pulled him forward again, and a sharp twist in Mycroft’s gut told him that he was well on his way to just giving in. He reached out, gripping the base and taking what he could down his throat. Greg gave a sharp gasp, and Mycroft reveled in it, swallowing around the salty taste. His mind was going at a thousand miles an hour, and there was no brake.

_How did I not notice this? Has he always wanted this? Am I blind?_

The hand on his neck slid up to his hair, and Lestrade let out a groan that made him shiver. The hips beneath his hands rocked up, pushing. God, he was pushy. Mycroft was surprised. He’d always seen this man as a patient one, but here in this car, he was shoving his face onto his cock, making desperate little sounds as that sure hand kept him in his place.

He didn’t much mind being kept on his knees, and that was something that should’ve rang some alarm bells.

But it didn’t. It just felt good.

The heat in the back of the car, the wet sounds of movement and suction, the cock in his mouth that grew larger with each passing second… Mycroft Holmes had no way of thinking straight at all. His brother could come right up behind him with a gun, and he wouldn’t have the instinct to trip him. But that was alright, as long as he had this. And he still couldn’t believe he had this.

The smell of sweat and a vague hint of cheap cologne was no longer abhorrent. It was the closest thing to a drug that Mycroft had ever touched, and it was taking him quite high, actually. Higher than he’d ever seen Sherlock. High enough to make him focus, high enough to make the edges grey away.

That cock was large, uncut. Mycroft’s lips worked the foreskin back, teasing that pink tip inside and concentrating his attention on it completely. That moment, there was nothing more important than making Gregory Lestrade lose his mind.

And when the grip on his scalp tightened, Mycroft knew he’d won.

Six seconds later, the D.I. let out a choked noise and filled Mycroft’s mouth, gasping for breath.

Mycroft knew he had to move. Wipe his mouth, sit down a seat away, demand that they take this to somewhere untouched by government surveillance.

But that moment, that very moment, he paused too long. And Greg Lestrade took out his pack of cigarettes.

“Yours, then?” He asked, as though it was a given that Mycroft would invite him. Because, Mycroft realized with only a vague sense of resignation, it was.

He lit up, and Mycroft’s eyes followed the line of his lips as they closed around the base of his paper.

Once upon that second, Mycroft Holmes realized that rather honest, unassuming gentlemen with sure hands and unshakable character were the world’s greatest threat. They were the wolves at the door, dressed as puppies with those sweet longing eyes, and once you let them in, they became the weakness that you didn’t know you had. He’d warn Sherlock, but the damage had been done, hadn’t it?

Of course it had.

So he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and nodded, knocking on the driver’s window to inform him of their destination.

And Lestrade’s hand fell to his knee, as it would on these rides ever after.


End file.
